


jump then fall

by lavendrsblue



Series: jump then fall & related works [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Inspired by you've got mail, Miscommunication, Romantic Comedy, background ships ingrid/dorothea and marianne/dimitri, when in doubt fall back on taylor swift song titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendrsblue/pseuds/lavendrsblue
Summary: “Ah, an Internet friend,” says Dimitri brightly. “I see.”After getting picked up by the record label of her dreams, Annette has to deal with the rudest, most horrible, argumentative, all-around impossible-to-work-with producerever.He’s got nothing in common with the dear friend she’s known online for years, her longtime collaborator and daily confidante——except she has no idea they’re the same person.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Series: jump then fall & related works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720237
Comments: 32
Kudos: 193





	jump then fall

Ingrid’s phone rings for the third time in as many minutes. When Dorothea comes up for air, she asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to get that?”

Ingrid sighs, resting her forehead on Dorothea’s soft shoulder. “I really should. Here—” She extricates herself from their tangle of limbs and crosses the room on unsteady legs; Dorothea’s smug gaze curls around her lazily. Ingrid suppresses a shiver and picks up her phone—

And her stomach drops. Three missed calls from Felix.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Dorothea sits up in bed. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders like a Renaissance painting of a mermaid rising from the waves. The sheets are twisted around her waist, the gray fabric throwing her pale skin into relief.

Felix always did have the worst timing.

“I think it’s an emergency,” says Ingrid. She drops her phone, scrambling for her clothes. Where did her socks go? “It’s Felix, I have to go—I’m sorry—”

“No, no, don’t be sorry.” Dorothea rises from the bed, dragging one of the blankets with her as a wrap. “Do whatever you need to do.”

“Thank you.” Ingrid pauses in the mad search for her underwear to kiss Dorothea on the cheek. “You’re amazing.”

“Oh, stop.” Dorothea smirks.

Ingrid calls Felix back and leaves the phone atop her dresser on speaker, hopping on one foot to get her jeans back on. He picks up almost immediately: another bad sign. Her stomach roils. “Felix?”

“Ingrid, thank god.” He sounds urgent and angry, but it’s Felix, so that could mean anything.

“What’s going on? I’m at Dorothea’s, I can be at your place in twenty.” She glances in the mirror as she yanks her sweater over her head. Her hair’s a wreck, not that she has time to do anything about it.

“Huh?” He sounds distracted. “Oh—you don’t need to come over.”

“Then where should I go?” She looks over and Dorothea’s expression mirrors her own alarm. “Do I need to go to a _hospital?_ ”

“What—no, no one’s hurt.”

Ingrid exhales in a rush, slumping against Dorothea’s closet door. Now she’s weak-kneed for a whole new reason. “Oh, thank goodness. You had me so worried—”

But he barrels on: “I have a question. You can answer it anywhere, I just need to know _now_. I need a strategy.”

“Felix, what are you talking about?”

“You have _friends_ ,” he says, in a disproportionately accusatory fashion for someone who’s been her friend for fifteen-plus years. “You even have a girlfriend. How did you do that?”

Ingrid stares. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

Dorothea closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Felix,” she says, sugar-sweet.

“Dorothea,” he parrots, like the little brat he’s always been.

“Ingrid is over here right now.”

“So?”

“She is _at my apartment_ ,” she says. Step by step she stalks closer to the phone. The blanket trails behind her, a train for a queen. “It is her _birthday_.”

“Happy birthday,” he says, perfunctory. “What’s your point?”

“You really interrupted us—”

“Ugh, don’t tell me about that—”

“—to ask for _relationship advice?”_

“Yes,” says Felix, as if this should be obvious. “Well? What did you do?”

“I’m going to set your house on fire,” says Dorothea, and hangs up.

* * *

**annettefantine:** hey! let me know when you’re here, i have SOOO much to tell you

Annette types out the message before she’s even through the door, fumbling with her keys one-handed as she presses send. The door squeaks open to an empty apartment; Mercedes said she’d be back late today. She tosses the mail on the counter, her shoes onto the pile by the door. Not a moment later her phone lights up with an ellipsis at the bottom of the chat window. As she waits for her friend to finish typing she does the welcome-home circuit around the apartment: running to each of the numerous lamps and light switches, turning the electric kettle on.

After an eternity, a message _finally_ appears.

 **swordguy220:** _about your first meeting? how did it go?_

She hops up and down on the squeaky spot on the floorboards as she types her response, heedless of the downstairs neighbors.

 **annettefantine:** omggg you will not BELIEVE IT  
 **swordguy220:** _in a good way, or a bad way?  
_ **annettefantine:** both??  
 **annettefantine:** okok hold on i just got home, i need to get food or something  
 **swordguy220:** _you haven’t eaten dinner yet? you should eat first, i can wait  
_ **annettefantine:** noooo i don’t want to wait!! i can eat and type at the same time!  
 **swordguy220:** _not happening. you need food  
_ **annettefantine:** omg stop being DIFFICULT  
 **swordguy220:** _i will log out  
_ **annettefantine:** UGHHH FINE HOLD ON

Annette whines aloud at her phone, shaking it until it offers to undo her last action. She rushes through the motions of reheating leftovers, hurrying between her bedroom to change into sweats, back to the kitchen to catch the microwave as it reaches the 1-second mark.

Once she’s settled onto the couch, armed with a fork, she reopens the chat.

 **annettefantine** : OK I GOT FOOD  
 **annettefantine** : let me tell you about it now!!!!  
 **swordguy220** : _go for it. what happened?  
_ **annettefantine** : ok so it was a little bit of a mixed bag… but overall i think it went well??  
 **swordguy220** : _mixed bag? how so?  
_ **annettefantine** : well i met the producer i’ll be working with… he seems really knowledgeable! he had, uh, a lot of opinions about music  
 **swordguy220** : _that’s not necessarily bad…_  
 **annettefantine** : no no i know! it’s just that a lot of his opinions were… not positive?  
 **annettefantine** : and sometimes i thought maybe he was like, trying to tell me that i was bad at something in a roundabout way  
 **swordguy220** : _that sounds kind of shitty.  
_ **annettefantine:** nooooo ugh. that’s not the right phrase hold on

Annette chews her lip, twirling her fork around and around. She scrolls up to view their conversation from earlier in the day, when she’d been at the high-rise headquarters of the music label, right in the heart of downtown LA.

 **annettefantine:** I THINK HE MIGHT BE RELATED TO THE CEO OMG. WHAT DO

She’d been sitting on a plush bench at the end of a long glass-walled hallway, where a secretary had directed her to wait fifteen minutes before. _He will be with you shortly_ , was all she’d said.

 **swordguy220:** _what makes you think that?_ **  
annettefantine:** idk this office just seems super fancy!! and the lady didn’t say a name she just said He Will Be With You Shortly **  
annettefantine:** WHO IS “HE”???  
 **annettefantine:** a talent scout? a manager? GOD HIMSELF??  
 **swordguy220:** _maybe he doesn’t have a name at all_  
 **annettefantine:** what if he’s OLD omg. what if he thinks i’m like 12 and doesn’t realize it’s me! i’m the one he’s looking for!!  
 **annettefantine:** he’ll be like, oh this is a MISTAKE you are a CHILD, LEAVE AT ONCE  
 **swordguy220:** _annette._  
 **annettefantine:** SORRY I’M NERVOUS. omg wait i don’t want him to see me on my phone I’LL TEXT YOU LATER OK BYE

Over the course of the following ten minutes she’d worked herself into a panicked frenzy—only to jump about six inches in the air when a door finally swung open. A guy who looked about her age stood before her. In a panicked once-over she absorbed pitch-dark hair, expensive shoes, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. _Ah_ , she thinks distantly. _The shoes. He’s fancy._

“You’re Annette,” he said. “Annette Dominic.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes!” she said, and suppressed a cringe at how high her voice had shot.

“Felix.” He’d stuck out a hand to shake, but not a second after their hands touched he dropped hers immediately, curling his fingers into a fist.

Her palms weren’t _that_ sweaty, were they?

Contrary to her assumption, the room was not a personal office, but more of a small meeting room. He dropped into a chair, one of four around a small round table. She sat tentatively and willed her chair not to squeak.

“First things first,” said Felix brusquely. “I need to know the best way to communicate with you.”

“Um, you could text me. Or you can try calling if it’s afternoon or evening, I usually work early mornings. But not always.”

“Fine.”

“How should I contact you?”

“Text is fine.”

“Do you have a business card or something?”

He emitted a grunt, slid a card across the table by way of replying. Heavy black cardstock with silver lettering, two words— _Felix Fraldarius_ —and a phone number. The only other print was the company logo in the corner.

“Oh… are you related to Rodrigue?” This was evidently the wrong thing to say: he scowled even more deeply.

“Obviously.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to assume…” She trailed off. Felix continued to look thunderous. So the CEO was a sore spot! Noted.

She cleared her throat and changed tack. “So, what do you usually do when a new artist comes in?”

“Don’t know.”

Annette stared. “But you’re a… manager?”

“ _God_ , no.”

“Sorry.” She tried not to wince. “What would be a more, um, accurate title?”

This, finally, made him pause in his mission to burn a hole in the table with his glaring. “Producer,” he’d said eventually. “I guess.”

“Oh. Great,” she’d said lamely. “So you only work with the established artists?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you did not,” she said under her breath, then froze— _third strike, you’re out!_ But Felix didn’t appear to notice. She tried again: “Do you work with… any artists, at all?”

“No.”

“Never? Not even one?”

“No.”

She tried her best not to slump in her seat. “If you don’t want to work with artists, why are you even here?”

“I was threatened.”

Okay, apparently she hadn’t been quiet enough that time, and also— “ _What_? Who threatened you?”

“The higher-ups.” Felix looked murderous. “They said I couldn’t keep using their recording equipment if I didn’t cooperate. So I’m here.”

“Oh. That seems… a fair trade.”

“Hardly.” He crossed his arms and glared off into the distance. _Great_. “So, your demo.”

“Yes?”

“It sounds like you’ve had recording experience.”

“Yes, I’ve had a YouTube channel for several years. I do covers, mostly, but some original work. Um, I stopped posting original songs in the last several months… you know, in case I could use them for something else.”

Felix grunted. It sounded… neutral? Not negative, at least. “What are your stats like?”

Luckily she’d anticipated a question like this. On her phone she pulled up the PDF of her analytics summary for the last six months and slid it across the table without a word. Felix seemed more of an _action_ guy than a _words_ guy, that much was obvious.

She leaned forward, waiting for a response— _that’s pretty good,_ or even, _better than I expected!—_ but he just grunted again. “Fine.”

_Fine?_

In the present, Annette heaves a sigh before continuing to type.

 **annettefantine** : welllll i don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything!! i’m thankful that he met with me, he could’ve sent some assistant or something. he said that he usually doesn’t work with artists at all?  
 **swordguy220** : _so you’re his only artist?_  
 **annettefantine** : omg i didn’t think of it like that. now i’m NERVOUS  
 **swordguy220** : _shit sorry_  
 **annettefantine** : it’s ok! i just. UGH IDK **  
annettefantine** : i guess i shouldn’t make assumptions. we did just meet after all! and really it was only for a few minutes  
 **annettefantine** : and he did say some nice things about my demo!  
 **annettefantine** : well uhhhh i think he did. he said it has “potential,” whatever that means  
 **swordguy220** : _that’s a great compliment_  
 **annettefantine** : is it?!  
 **annettefantine** : i thought he was saying that it’s so bad that there’s nowhere to go but up :(((  
 **swordguy220** : _yeah it could_  
 **swordguy220** : _or it could mean that what you have is already great, and with some refinement you could go even farther. reach new heights._

She squirms into the pillows, then pinches herself on the arm, hard. “Stop that,” she says aloud, into the empty room.

 **annettefantine** : omg stoppp i’m blushing for real now  
 **swordguy220** : _you seem to do that a lot_  
 **annettefantine** : i really don’t!! it’s your fault!!  
 **swordguy220** : _i make you blush…?_  
 **annettefantine** : sdlkfjskjdfhsldf UGH i’m changing the subject now!!!  
 **swordguy220** : _that’s fine_  
 **swordguy220** : _now that i know the truth_  
 **annettefantine** : the truth of WHAT  
 **annettefantine** : i have no control over my blood vessels! that’s not how blood vessels work!  
 **swordguy220** : _i don’t think anyone does. but here we are_  
 **annettefantine** : ughhh i said i was changing the subject! why do you INSIST on embarrassing me  
 **swordguy220** : _i don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. i’m sorry_  
 **annettefantine** : nono it’s ok i was just joking! i know you’re not serious about it  
 **swordguy220** : _ok good._  
 **swordguy220** : _it’s hard to make jokes on here. half the time i just sound like a dick_  
 **swordguy220** : _though i also do that irl i guess._  
 **annettefantine** : yet here we are~ hahaha  
 **annettefantine** : it’s ok i know you prefer text-based stuff! don’t worry about it  
 **swordguy220** : _thanks_

They’d established that relatively early on in their… work relationship, or whatever it’s morphed into. Back when their first collab was in the works, Annette had suggested that they video chat after a few days of confusing back-and-forth about a particular verse. It was hard for her to convey what she wanted through text alone: her few other musical collabs had been in-person, so she could _hear_ what the other person wanted. Especially with the multiple layers her friend packed into his arrangements, playing each instrument himself before layering them together digitally—how could she say the violin felt kinda _meh_ but the Spanish guitar was like _ooh!_

She’d been a little taken aback when he’d refused to talk face-to-face, but it soon became clear that her friend felt more comfortable when he had more time to think about what he wanted to say.

 **annettefantine** : hey you know i’m still okay with sticking to text! i mean i would love to talk to you on facetime or smth if you ever feel like doing that, but if not that’s ok too!!  
 **swordguy220** : _thanks annette._  
 **swordguy220** : _you’re generous. with how kind you are._

She squirms again, knocking a pillow off the couch.

The doorknob rattles with Mercedes’ keys, and already her humming drifts through the door. Annette quickly signs off and shoves her phone into the pillows. It’s not like her friend is a secret or anything—heaven knows she tells Mercie everything that happens in her life anyway—but this moment of warmth is something she wants to keep for herself, just for a little while.

* * *

The next meeting with Annette looms large, occupying more and more space in Felix’s brain until he’s primed to explode. It follows him around as he attempts to carry on with his life normally—to the grocery store, to the recording studio—but he cannot shake it off, the most annoying shadow.

One afternoon, as he and Dimitri make themselves lunch after a fairly grueling workout, it occurs to him that Dimitri has multiple people he refers to as “good friends”—and furthermore, a girlfriend, as of the last several months. Logically this indicates some level of baseline knowledge on how not to repel people like the bubonic plague.

“Thank you,” says Dimitri, when Felix tells him so. “I do my best.” Fucking tryhard, he actually does.

“I can’t believe I’m asking _you_ about this,” says Felix, to himself and the world at large.

Dimitri blinks at him innocently. “Asking what?”

Felix hates him.

“There’s this girl,” he grits out.

“Hm,” says Dimitri.

“She doesn’t like me. Probably.” Felix slaps an extra slice of tomato onto his sandwich just to spite himself (he hates tomatoes). “And I—want her to.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” says Dimitri. He cuts thin, deliberate slices of grilled chicken with agonizing slowness. “You’ve only met this… person…” He trails off, looking to Felix to offer a name, but Felix only glares. “...once before?”

“Yes—no. Sort of. We’ve talked before. Just not in person.”

“Ah, an Internet friend,” says Dimitri brightly. “I see.” Dimitri, despite having amassed several thousand followers on Instagram, has the general technological ability of a dog chewing a lightbulb.

(The Instagram masses are treated to a once-monthly, slightly out-of-focus shot of Dimitri squinting at his front camera, usually at the gym. Once Sylvain had taken his phone and posted three pictures of Dimitri shirtless from their last group beach outing, which is when roughly ninety-eight percent of said followers had discovered the account.)

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So she has a good impression of you from your previous encounters?”

“Not really. She doesn’t remember me.” Felix pulls at his workout leggings. It shouldn’t bother him, this white lie—Dimitri is the most gullible person he knows—but it makes his skin itch. “So, the problem.”

“Yes, the problem,” says Dimitri. He considers his sandwich, adding slices of hard-boiled egg. “Since she doesn’t remember you, you could consider this a fresh start. Show her that you’re being considerate through small gestures.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘gestures’?”

“You know, _gestures_. Like being chivalrous.”

“Chivalry is inherently sexist—”

“I _mean_ , you could be… gentlemanly.” In lieu of a response, Felix glares to convey the word _What_. “You could open the door for her, or pull out the chair so she can sit down. Marianne likes it when I do that, I think it makes her feel fancy. Uh, she didn’t say that exactly. I’m paraphrasing.” Dimitri rubs at the back of his neck. “But I like doing it because it feels like I’m taking care of her. And who doesn’t like being taken care of— _to a certain point_ , Felix, don’t give me that face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

Now it’s Dimitri’s turn to pull a face, a distinctly Ingrid-ish deadpan stare. Felix turns to the refrigerator to get away from it—he’s always had a hard time saying no to Ingrid, even when she’s only present spiritually. “Fine. Maybe I’ll try it. Whatever.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Dimitri, and bites into his sandwich with gusto.

* * *

Across the street from the designated coffeeshop, Annette pauses in the shadow of a palm tree, bracing herself. Second meeting, second chances! She ought to be optimistic, give Felix the benefit of the doubt. Maybe on the day of their first meeting he’d had a stomachache or something—a really terrible one that made him act like a total jerk baby.

With a deep, steadying inhale, she crosses the street and enters the cafe. The decor is modern and tastefully minimal, despite the run-down exterior. In one corner a woman holds a video conference in a language Annette doesn’t recognize; a grad student with deep bags under her eyes holds court over two tables pushed together, laden with papers. And in the far corner Felix stands by a smaller table, arms crossed, fidgeting like he’s been waiting forever (which she _knows_ is not true, he’d only dropped a pin at his location like ten minutes ago).

But that is _not_ the attitude to begin this meeting with!

She picks her way through the tables, mindful of her bag. When she reaches him, Felix grabs the back of the single chair and jerks it away from the table like it’s personally offended him.

This seems like it’s… probably normal behavior for him.

She settles onto the bench seat, rifling through her bag for her journal. After a moment she locates it in the depths and straightens to find Felix—glaring at her.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. She couldn’t have messed something up this fast, right?

“Why are you sitting _there_?”

She looks around to confirm their surroundings: one small table, one bench seat, one low-backed chair that Felix has in a death grip. “There’s… no other place to sit?”

“You were supposed to sit here.”

Annette blinks. Then, as his words sink in— _yes he actually said that—_ she can feel herself puffing up like a cartoon, primed to explode. “Excuse me?”

He gestures jerkily (because he’s acting like a jerk). “Why didn’t you sit here?”

“Why would I?”

“I pulled out the chair,” he says through gritted teeth, as if every breath pains him. “For you.”

“For _me_? Don’t tell me what to do, you—bizarro control freak!”

“ _Control freak_?”

She can actually see a vein pounding in his temple. Normally she wouldn’t do this—she wouldn’t condone this flaring-up of her temper, raising her voice in public, any of this at _all_ —but something in her chest rears up, ready for a battle, and so she barrels on. “Who else, Felix!”

“You—what—I am _not._ ” Felix is turning beet red from neck to hairline. It would be fascinating, if she weren’t so busy being utterly consumed by rage.

“Is this your idea of a joke? I’m not going to stick around just to play your—weird game of musical chairs!” And she jumps up to leave.

Rather, she tries to stand up and bangs her knees on the underside of the table, rattling the artistically placed succulents in their little pot. Everyone in the vicinity turns to the source of the racket, and she has to flap her hands and apologize several times before everyone turns away, at which point she can finally shimmy along the bench till she’s clear of the table, and _then_ she can jump up to leave.

And Felix is just smirking at her, arms crossed, like the _total jerk he is._

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not.”

“I know you want to!” She points a finger, poking him in the chest. He startles back, and she momentarily feels bad. Just a little. A tiny bit. For like a second.

Felix huffs, exasperated, and just like that, the second is over. “Are we going to talk about music or what? We’re already here.”

As if _she_ were the one making things difficult! “ _Yes_ , fine.”

“Aren’t you going to order anything?”

She blinks at him, owlish. “Um, I can wait.”

“You shouldn’t. You need food.” He takes a pointed sip from his coffee. First he’s impatient to get started, now he won’t start until she eats—what is his _problem_?

So she gets up, takes the long way through the tables to the register, takes a few sweet minutes to decide, just to needle him. When she returns she straightens her notebook and pen primly, to say, _Look what a mature person I am, not taking your bait!_ Felix rolls his eyes.

And then… they have a meeting. Like, a real work meeting between adults. She describes the directions in which she wants to take her songwriting; he sketches a list of deadlines on a napkin. He orders another coffee (black, of course) while she munches through an enormous blueberry scone. Quickly she realizes Felix is an incorrigible perfectionist: he separates every single thread of a song in order to weave it together again in a new way. His eye (ear?) for detail really is impressive, she thinks despite herself. Better than most of the people she knew in the music program in college.

And strangely—he seems so familiar. She can’t put a finger on what. Something about his speech patterns, or maybe the way he pushes his hair back when he’s focusing.

She shakes her head to clear it. He’s been talking at her, but she’s so lost in thought she’s missed everything. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

His expression crumples into a frown. “I said, I’ll have the changes implemented by Friday night. We can meet again on Saturday and discuss.”

“Saturday? Oh… okay.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing! I’ll just have to find someone to cover me at work...”

“You work Saturdays?” His eyes narrow—why does he act so _suspicious_ all the time? _Who hurt you_ , thinks Annette indignantly, then reins herself in with a deep breath.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have a choice!”

“Yes you do. Just tell them you won’t work weekends.” So she’d been right about the expensive-looking shoes, at their first meeting; Felix is definitely someone who’s never worked in food service. Or any service, possibly. 

“Just because you’ve never had to work a weekend in your life doesn’t mean that everyone else doesn’t,” she snaps.

“Oh,” he says. His gaze flicks down to his empty mug. “Right.”

Annette puffs up, indignant. Just because he’s got pretty eyes—kinda brown but not quite hazel, almost amber in color—what does he think, he can just flutter his eyelashes and make her feel guilty? Well, it won’t work. Not on her!

(It works a little.)

“I didn’t realize,” he says, quiet. “Your work schedule—I assumed it was only weekdays. I didn’t mean to interfere with your obligations.” She looks up, then looks again—Felix is still staring down at the table. His arms are crossed and his eyebrows knitted, but he doesn’t radiate the usual disdain. “My family’s business never had… conventional hours. So I forgot.”

As ruffled as she is, it still piques her interest. “Where did you grow up?”

“Not here. In Hong Kong and London.” That would explain why she can’t place his accent; sometimes he sounds almost entirely American, and at others, not unlike the British historical dramas she used to binge in college.

“Wow,” she breathes. He glances up at her, startled, and abruptly begins to gather their notes together.

“It’s nothing.” He lifts his mug to his lips, evidently forgetting he’s already drunk the contents, and when he finds it empty—wonder of wonders—patches of color appear high on his cheekbones. Felix Fraldarius, ice prince, is a _blusher_.

She can’t wait to tell Mercedes.

“That’s not _nothing_ , that’s super interesting.” That one little thing—that blush, an involuntary reaction—has endeared her more than any of the words out of his mouth so far, so she leans across the table. “Will you tell me more about it?”

“Why,” he says immediately. She deflates; he wavers. “Maybe later,” he mutters, and those little splotches of pink are back again— _score_.

A moment later he shakes it off and the scowl returns. “Send me your work schedule as soon as possible. I’ll schedule our meetings so they don’t interfere with your hours.”

“Oh, um, I already have my schedule for next week, so I can just…” It’s the work of a moment to bring it up on her phone, and she hands it over, hoping he won’t notice the fingerprints all over her screen.

“Good. We’ll meet at the main offices on Friday. One o’clock.”

“Felix, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t be late,” he says abruptly. “I hate being downtown. We’ll get it over with as soon as possible.” And he stands and walks right out the door.

Annette stares after his retreating back. He’s snapped back to his usual self so fast, she practically has neck pain from the whiplash.

“What is his _problem_ ,” she mutters.

* * *

“Ah, Felix,” says Dimitri brightly. “I’ve been waiting to hear—how did it go with Annette?”

Felix stomps past their table without even a sideways glance. Never mind that it was practically a miracle to get a table in this bar, much less one with a coveted panoramic view of the city.

“Incoming,” Sylvain mutters into his drink. Ingrid raises her eyes to the idyllic clouds above, lamenting the soon-to-be loss of their peaceful afternoon.

A minute later Felix returns with a drink, which he all but slams onto the table, rattling the ice cubes within. “She hates me,” he announces.

“Ah,” says Dimitri, feebly.

“ _Who_ ,” says Sylvain, perking up.

“Ugh,” mutters Ingrid. She has _not_ eaten enough to handle this. All they’ve ordered is some ridiculous charcuterie board (at Sylvain’s insistence), and if she doesn’t get something substantial into her stomach in the next fifteen minutes, she’s going to start chewing on the floral arrangements.

She scoops up a generous amount of soft cheese, swatting Sylvain’s hand out of the way, and shoves it into her mouth. “You’re talking about the same girl from a week ago, right?” she asks with her mouth full. Felix wrinkles his nose, prissy. “What did you do to her?”

“You _know_ about this girl?” squawks Sylvain. “Felix, you told both of them and _not_ me? I’m hurt.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” snaps Felix. “I took Dimitri’s advice, which was complete bullshit, by the way, so thanks for _nothing_.”

Ingrid pivots to narrow her eyes at Dimitri, who raises his hands in surrender. “I just suggested that he try to be thoughtful… do some nice things for her.”

“I pulled out the fucking chair, like you said, and then everything went straight to shit—”

“It can’t have been that bad,” says Dimitri, encouraging.

“She called me a _control freak_ ,” Felix spits. Dimitri wilts; Sylvain whistles low. “She hates me even more than she did before.”

“Clearly she knows nothing about you,” begins Sylvain, “because we all know that historically you have _zero issues_ with relinquishing control—” He cuts off with a yelp as Ingrid kicks him in the shin.

“Not helping,” she tells him. “Though you’re not… technically wrong.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Sylvain reaches across the table to swipe Felix’s glass. Felix lunges after him.

“Give it back,” he snaps, but Sylvain tilts his chair back as far as he can with his damnably long legs. Ingrid rolls her eyes. Felix hates sharing drinks, especially with Sylvain—which is pretty fair, all things considered. Who knows where that mouth has been?

Dimitri, in an attempt to save the conversation (and Felix’s blood pressure), continues. “So are you going to see her again?”

“Next Friday.”

“Almost two weeks from now?” Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “You’d better have some moves up your sleeve, Fraldarius, she won’t wait around forever.”

Felix flips him off. “Can’t meet any sooner. She works this weekend, Friday’s our only overlapping free day.”

“Wait.” Ingrid holds up a hand. “You know her work schedule? Already?”

“Yeah, I asked for it.”

Ingrid gapes. “Felix, that is—so creepy.”

“It’s practical.” He glares at her, clueless.

“Creepy,” she insists. “Or at least, it sounds that way, because she doesn’t know you.”

“Maybe that’s why she won’t put out for you,” suggests Sylvain.

“Fuck off,” snaps Felix. “That’s not what this is about. It’s a—professional relationship only.” Ingrid suppresses a wince.

“But I thought you said she was an old friend?” asks Dimitri.

“No—kind of. She’s… important.” Immediately upon the admission Felix hunches in on himself, ears reddening.

He isn’t reacting to Sylvain’s bait like he usually would—he’s staring somewhere past all of them, worrying his lower lip. Ingrid aims a kick under the table at Sylvain’s shins. He makes a face at her, which she doesn’t deign to return. She knows he’s noticed too, not that he’s being helpful about it. Felix’s general grievances were a daily affair, but genuine distress like this was rare.

She leans forward, consciously lowering her voice to soften the impact. “Felix, if you want help with… getting closer to her, you could just ask us.”

“I _did_ ask, thanks for noticing.” He glares at an adjacent table, avoiding her gaze.

She exchanges a guilty look with Dimitri. They had both underestimated the gravity of the situation, failed to recognize Felix reaching out for help, as he almost never did.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize she was so significant for you.”

“Don’t apologize.” Felix looks supremely uncomfortable, as per usual when any of them expresses a sincere emotion.

“Yeah, don’t apologize, Ingrid,” says Sylvain. “It’s not your fault he didn’t think to ask me first. Fe, I pretty much have a degree in this stuff, you know that. If you want to get with her, you just have to—”

Felix slams the rest of his drink (which would be more impressive if it weren’t a [Shirley Temple](https://www.google.com/search?q=shirley+temple+drink&oq=shirley+temple+drink&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j0l7.1498j0j1&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)). “This is bullshit. I’m leaving.”

“Felix,” Ingrid begins, but he stands abruptly, sending his chair screeching on the polished marble floor.

“I have to get my parking validated,” he mutters.

Sylvain straightens up, reaching for his wallet. “Hey, can you get mine too?”

“No.” Felix stomps away. Sylvain flips him off as he goes.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” asks Dimitri, defeated.

“Nope.” Sylvain takes a long sip of his drink. “Over-under on an impending emotional breakdown? I’d say forty-eight hours.”

“Sylvain.” Ingrid glares. “Would it kill you to show a little empathy? This sounds pretty serious.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Unlike you guys, apparently.” He lets his chair fall forward onto four legs with a _thunk_. “Thanks for _not_ updating me, by the way. When I say _what’s up_ , this is exactly the kind of thing I wanna hear.”

Ingrid puffs out her cheeks in a sigh. “Sorry,” she relents. “I didn’t realize it was this serious until now. He did call me a few weeks ago, but he was being such a brat about it, I kind of forgot about it.”

“In favor of all the other times he acts like a little brat? Understandable.”

“Sylvain,” says Dimitri this time, brow furrowing. Ingrid can practically hear him revving up for a lecture.

“What? I mean it!” Sylvain holds his hands up, placating. “He’s a stubborn little dick, we can say it with affection.” He motions for another drink, and one appears within seconds, as if by magic. “Did you hear him, though? He said this girl’s _important_. For him, that’s basically a declaration of love.”

The three lapse into silence at that.

* * *

“You’re late,” says Felix as Annette bangs into the room.

She collapses into the chair opposite him, wilting. “I’m so sorry!”

“You’re usually on time.” Just rub it in, why doesn’t he!

“I _know_ ,” she wails, and catches herself. Professional, she’s a _professional._ She won’t let him get under her skin this time, even if he is going to act all grouchy. “I know,” she repeats, schooling her tone into something more even. “I came straight from work, as quickly as I could.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “Your shift ended at 12.”

Annette gapes. Literally, her mouth falls open of its own accord. The nerve of him! Every fiber of her being bristles, raring to retaliate—and yet a small voice that sounds remarkably like Mercedes reminds her, _This is what you’ve always wanted. This is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for_.

So she says through gritted teeth, “We were busy. I stayed to help.”

“Are your coworkers that incompetent?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Then you shouldn’t have needed to stay past the end of your shift.”

“Don’t insult them,” she flares, unable to help herself. “You’ve never even met them, don’t go and make judgments about their abilities! They’re skilled, and talented, and they actually know how to work with other people, unlike _you_.”

“You think I don’t know how I am?” snaps Felix.

“Self-awareness doesn’t seem like your strong suit!”

“I’m _trying—_ ”

“Trying to do what? Be the most impossible person to work with, ever?” It’s all she can do to keep herself from banging her hands on the table, which she never even _does_ , what on earth. “I sat in traffic for over an hour to get here, and what have you been doing, sitting here glaring at people for fun?”

“Of course not!” He’s turning red, all the way to his ears like he did before in the cafe. “I was sitting here, waiting for _you_.”

“I already told you, I had to stay late at work and then it took me forever to get here, and—” She catches sight of the clock on the wall and groans through her teeth. “It’ll take me even longer to get back!”

“Then why don’t you just go,” he practically spits at her. She rears back, stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“You said it yourself. Your commute lengthens with every minute you stay. So leave.” He shoves the scattered papers into a sloppy pile. He doesn’t look up, so he can’t see how she’s gaping at him.

“You—you can’t—but I just got here!”

He flicks a hand in her direction, dismissive. “I’ll send you the audio files with notes attached. You can review them at home.”

“If you could’ve done that, why am I even here?” She’s so angry her hands are shaking. That’s never happened before, she’s never felt such a passionate surge of emotion rise up so fast. But this is the effect Felix seems to have on her: he catches her off guard, flusters her, then once she’s fallen flat on her face he dumps a finishing insult onto her head.

“Conventionality, I guess. I can just send you the files from now on. Clearly meeting in person isn’t working for us—” his mouth twists in a frown— “and it’ll be easier for you to access our collaborations that way.”

“So… you don’t want to meet up?”

“No. Wouldn’t you prefer that? Since I’m so _difficult_ to work with.”

 _He doesn’t even want to see me at all_. She’s failed his tests, and now she’s being brushed to the side with the other discarded afterthoughts. He might as well have slapped her in the face. Burning-hot tears well up in her eyes, and she stares hard at the ceiling, willing them not to spill over.

“Anyway, I’m better at text-based comm—are you _crying_?”

“ _No_.” She barely recognizes her own voice, so furious and hoarse with unshed tears. “There’s no reason to, to mock me. Haven’t you done enough?”

“What have I done?” He looks baffled, and it only makes her angrier.

“Don’t play dumb.” She shoves her pen and notebook back into her bag—stupid to bring that, she looks like a schoolgirl, deserving of a scolding. “You sit there in your big _stupid_ chair and you question me, and you insult everything I say, and you don’t even want to work with me—”

“I never said that I didn’t want to work with you,” he interjects.

“You didn’t have to!” Traitorous, the tears escape from the corners of her eyes, carving hot tracks down her face. She scrubs them away harshly as she yanks her sweater on. “I can see it, it’s so obvious, it’s in everything you’ve said to me so far—”

“Annette, wait.” His hand on her arm. She tenses, expecting him to pull her back, but his touch is gentle, light. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Don’t touch me,” she yells at him, whirling to shove him away. “You are the _rudest_ —most horrible, untrusting, _impossible to get along with_ person I have _ever_ met!”

He stumbles back (she pushed him pretty hard) and that’s the last thing she sees before the door slams behind her, him standing there stunned with a hand still outstretched.

She composes herself in the walk back to her car, so as not to scare the parking attendant, and she makes it all the way back to Glendale and up the stairs and into her apartment with great dignity. It’s not until Mercedes takes one look at her and says, so gently, “Oh, sweetheart, what _happened_ ,” that she bursts into furious sobs that nearly choke her with their force, racking her entire body.

“Why does he hate me,” she wails, hands pressed against her eyes like it’ll make the tears stop. “I don’t understand—what did I _do_ , Mercie, I tried so hard to do everything and nothing made a difference, _nothing_.”

Mercedes crosses the room to gather Annette up in her arms, making soothing noises as Annette cries into her shoulder and gets mascara stains all over the blanket from the couch. “Oh, Annie,” she says, draping the blanket over her shoulders. “He can’t hate you, I’m sure of it.”

“He _does_ ,” sobs Annette. “You don’t see the way he looks at me, like he’s so angry with me when I don’t even know what I _did_ , and I try to ask and he won’t even answer—he said I didn’t do anything but it doesn’t make any _sense_.” Her voice is rising, words blurring together, but she can’t stop them from tumbling out. “And I’ve never wanted anything more and I was so _stupid_ , why didn’t I see it?”

“Annie, please don’t blame yourself—”

“I should’ve known it was too good to be true.” Annette slumps into Mercedes’ softness. “There must have been a mistake. There’s no way I could’ve made it in, otherwise.”

“Annie.” Mercedes, uncharacteristically stern. Annette stiffens in surprise and pulls back a little, blinking clumps of mascara out of her eyes. Mercedes’ hands are firm on her shoulders, and she gives Annette a gentle shake. “You know as well as I do that you’ve earned your accomplishments. Yes, you might have had a little nudge of good luck, but you said it yourself—you’ve never wanted anything more.”

A fresh round of tears wells up in Annette’s eyes. “I know, but—”

“ _But_ you worked hard for so long.” Mercedes produces a tissue from her endless pockets, dabbing at her face. Annette lets her eyes close and breathes out shakily as Mercedes continues, her hands as soothing as her voice.

“But if I’m dismissed from the label…”

“Then you’ll find another,” says Mercedes firmly. “Another who will appreciate what you can do.”

Annette hiccups, one last sob escaping, before leaning into her. “How are you so smart about this? You always know just what to say.” Mercedes laughs softly. Annette can feel her shoulders shake.

“Oh, it’s no special skill. I’m only reminding you of what you already know.”

Annette lets herself be guided to the couch, curling up in the blanket. Some cooking competition show plays quietly behind her, and Mercie hums along to the theme song as she puts the kettle on. In her infinite wisdom she knows exactly what blend of tea will taste the most calming, and as Annette wraps her hands around their biggest mug, the steam helps clear both her stuffy nose and her thoughts.

 _Skilled—talented—unlike you_ , she’d said to Felix, but that’s not necessarily true. Just because he’s so far revealed his only talents to be insulting people and being unnecessarily combative, it doesn’t mean those are his _only_ life skills. He had to have some measure of musical talent or business sense to make it all the way up the ranks to producer at such a young age, he can’t be more than a year or two older than herself.

When the episode ends she shuffles into her bedroom, clutching a fresh cup of tea, and opens her laptop. There are two emails from Felix with blank subject lines: one with multiple attachments, the other none. She opens the one with attachments first and finds the entire body of text to read:

_Here_.

Well. If he’s going to be harsh, better to get it over with quickly.

So she opens the audio file and plays the track and it’s—stunning.

Over her vocals and simple chords he’s added another guitar, the faintest piano, the layers meshing seamlessly. It draws out the heart of the song, so much that she’s knocked breathless, staggered by the uncanny feeling that he’s reached into her most ambitious dreams—not just bringing them to life, but weaving in new threads to polish and make them shine. When it’s over she sits for a moment, letting it all wash over her, and then she plays it again. And again.

She opens the second message.

_Annette,_

_I don’t expect you to read this, or send any kind of reply. If you never want to see me again, that is wholly your right. I won’t ask anything of you. You owe me nothing, and even if you did I wouldn’t deserve it anyway._

_The other email contains the notes and additions I made to your demos. You can do whatever you want with them. There was almost nothing I could add to improve what you already made. You have an ear like no one else I’ve ever met, let alone had the fortune to work with._

_I’m sorry. I was an ass, and worse. You deserve better. I am so sorry._

_Felix_

She leans back in her creaky old computer chair, swiveling gently back and forth with a toe against the desk. From the kitchen, Mercedes hums a tune she can’t quite place. _I’m only reminding you of what you already know_ , she’d said.

She’s right—Annette knew what she wanted to say before she’d even reached the end of the second message. To send a reply is easy as breathing out, the courage welling up inside her.

_I’m sorry too. I said things I didn’t mean. Can we meet again next week? Friday works for me._

* * *

The scent of fresh dumplings wafts from the adjacent tables, and hunger only makes Felix’s stomach twist tighter with anxiety. This place is unchanged from his childhood memories: dirty dishes on the shelves by the emergency exit, waving lucky cats at the front, the empty hostess stand with laminate menus piled high. At least they’ve reupholstered the chairs, red vinyl swapped out for dark green.

The door chimes clatter and Annette appears, a fish out of water with her bright dress in the patchily lit restaurant. He lifts a hand in greeting and she hurries over, sliding into the seat across from him, already fretting about something.

“I think I’m overdressed,” she says. Her hands won’t stop moving, smoothing her hair, curling around her bag.

“Why? You look fine.”

“Well, you told me your family used to come here—I assumed it would be, uh, fancier.”

He prickles, automatic. “What, is this not nice enough for you?”

“That is _not_ what I said, Felix! I just meant that I expected something different. That’s all.”

“Oh… right. Sorry.”

Spots of pink appear high on her cheeks. “Um, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

Annette stares. “It’s not a big deal…”

“No, I mean—” He’d spent the whole drive over thinking about what to say, Ingrid’s suggestions playing on endless loop in his head, but now faced with Annette and her freckles and her sunflower hair ribbon, he’s forgotten every word in every language he’s ever learned.

“I owe you an apology,” he manages eventually.

“You already apologized,” she says. Her voice is so gentle _._

He wants to run away—anything to escape this feeling that she can see straight through him. It’s different from Ingrid’s sisterly fretting or Dimitri’s puppy-eyed worries; it’s like she _knows_ him inside and out, like no one ever has. Like he’s never allowed anyone else to know him.

But first—apologizing. One thing at a time.

“Then have another,” he says, and Annette sits up straighter in surprise. He grimaces. “I know I’ve offended you in the past. Hurt you. I didn’t mean to, I just—say things, because it’s the first thing I think of. But it’s, I don’t mean it. I know that’s not an excuse, that’s not what I want. I’m… working on it. So, sorry.” He can feel his shoulders hunching up as he forces the words out.

“I accept your apology.” That soft tone again. He squirms.

“I don’t know if you should,” he mutters.

“Well, I’m doing it anyway.”

“Why?”

On her pinky finger she spins a thin gold ring around and around. She’s worn it every time he’s seen her, but he’s never asked who gave it to her.

“You’re such a perfectionist,” she says after a long moment. “If you think something needs improvement, you won’t rest until you’re satisfied. So I think you must have the capacity to apply that to yourself, too. It takes a lot to be able to recognize things in yourself that you want to change, and you’ve done that.”

“But what if this is it,” he says. “What if I’m just terrible to work with and I’ll never get any better—what will you do then?”

For the first time today she frowns at him, her lower lip sticking out. _Cute_ , he thinks distantly. “I don’t need to worry about that. I know that’s not true.”

“That’s a lot of blind faith you’re going on.”

“I don’t think it’s blind faith. I can see you.”

She has so much kindness in her. It stuns him, every time.

He’s saved from a response by the arrival of a waiter, who slaps two menus onto the table and walks away without a word. Annette stares after his retreating back.

“Do you think he’s mad at me?” she whispers urgently. “I bumped into the table at the front and knocked some stuff over, so I feel like he definitely hates me now.”

“What? No, of course not. That’s how he always is.”

“Oh.” She studies the menu, brow furrowed. Felix narrowly avoids the urge to—smile, or something.

“Do you know what you want to order?” he asks instead.

“Um, I’ve never had dim sum.”

“ _Never_?” He leans forward, involuntary. She’s mentioned she grew up in some nowhere town in Colorado, but still. “Really?”

She shakes her head. “You can order whatever you want.”

“What do you like?”

“Um… I don’t know. Sorry.”

He waves a hand, evaluating the menu with a newly appraising eye. “Don’t be sorry. Just try whatever’s in front of you.”

The waiter returns, scowling, followed closely by an auntie with the dim sum cart. Annette stares at the selection with a combination of curiosity and undisguised hunger, and it makes him want to—do something. So he orders har gow plus all his favorites, an indulgence that makes his stomach do a little flip. In his periphery he can see Annette watching with wide eyes, and despite himself a little bubble of pleasure rises in his chest: finally, here is something good he can do for her.

A pot of tea arrives in a moment—perks of ordering in Canto—and he pours tea into the small ceramic cups, a habit of the youngest son.

“I didn’t know you spoke two languages,” says Annette tentatively, as Felix shuffles the teapot around to make room for the food.

“Three,” he says, then admits: “Two and a half.”

“What are they?”

“English and Cantonese. The half is Korean.”

“That’s amazing,” she says. He fidgets, dancing fingertips over the too-hot teacup.

“Not really. My brother speaks four.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mention him?”

“Not until now.”

“Hm.”

More dishes arrive for the already-crowded table, egg flower soup and beef chow fun to join the bamboo rounds from the cart.

“This looks amazing,” Annette sighs, clasping her hands together. “What is… everything?”

“Try it and find out.”

This is when Felix learns that Annette _loves_ a good meal. She’s not unlike a child on Christmas morning, opening a string of presents. She burns her mouth on the chow fun but keeps eating, coughing but undeterred; she takes one bite of a green bean and immediately helps herself to another serving before she’s finished the first.

 _Ingrid will like her_ , he thinks as Annette picks up a char siu bao with her fingertips, mindful of the paper stuck to the bottom. She takes a single bite of the bun and freezes.

A silence stretches between them as Annette chews very, very slowly.

“Annette?” he asks. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

“It’s so good I want to cry and then pass out,” she whispers without a trace of irony, her mouth full of food, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s—and Felix tips his head back and laughs.

“It’s just a pork bun.”

“It’s a _magic_ pork bun,” she corrects. “Can I have thirty?”

“Whatever you want.” He reaches over and uses the clean end of his chopsticks to plop another onto her plate.

They mostly forgo conversation for the rest of the meal in favor of cleaning every single dish on the table. For such a tiny person, Annette can eat like a starving man just returned from wandering the desert.

“Did you like it?” he asks once the plates are cleared, suddenly nervous again. Annette groans and slides down in her chair.

“It was _so good_ ,” she moans. “I can’t believe I was missing out on all of this. Especially, um, the slippery ones. With the shrimp?”

“They’re called _har gow_.”

She repeats the words to herself, and he watches her taste the intonation.

“I always order them,” he finds himself saying. She tilts her head to one side and waits. “They’re… they were my mother’s favorite.”

“Oh,” she says, so soft. “So you order them for her.”

There it is again, that sensation like she knows everything about him already, like he’s laid himself out on a table and she’s picking over him with a magnifying glass. It’s terrifying, being seen in such a way, but now it’s strangely tempered by some other feeling, one tied up in Annette herself. Something—warm.

Must be the oolong.

* * *

**annettefantine** : fun news! i’m going to san francisco in two weeks from nowwww and i’m SO PSYCHED  
 **swordguy220** : _san francisco? seriously? so am i  
_ **annettefantine** : what!! no way!! i can’t believe it  
 **swordguy220** : _i’m not lying  
_ **annettefantine** : i know you’re not!! ugh you’re so literal  
 **swordguy220** : _it’s an affliction.  
_ **annettefantine** : hope it’s not contagious!  
 **swordguy220** : _would you like to find out?  
_ **annettefantine** : ...i’m sorry what

Felix drops his phone to the floor and his face to his hands. Let the earth swallow him whole: why, _how_ does this girl bring out the most nauseatingly awkward parts of him. His empty apartment provides no answer.

 **swordguy220** : _fuck that was so bad. i’m so sorry  
_ **swordguy220** : _forget i said anything  
_ **annettefantine** : that was bad even for you mr. smooth talker!! hahahah  
 **swordguy220** : _ugh  
_ **annettefantine** : ok but what did you mean?  
 **swordguy220** : _i meant you could see for yourself. if my… literalism is contagious. like, in person  
_ **annettefantine** : what  
 **annettefantine** : OHHHHHH  
 **annettefantine** : are you saying you want to meet up??

His hands freeze around the phone. He can feel his heartbeat in his mouth.

 **swordguy220** : _yes  
_ **swordguy220** : _if you’re not opposed  
_ **annettefantine** : i’m not opposed! i love meeting strangers from the internet  
 **swordguy220** : _ok i realize it sounds shady  
_ **annettefantine** : nooooo that’s not what i meant! i’ve met some awesome people, i’m down!  
 **swordguy220** : _oh. okay, good  
_ **swordguy220** : _you can pick the place, if you want  
_ **annettefantine** : oooooo ok!! where’s a place you haven’t been yet  
 **swordguy220** : _i’ll go anywhere for you. just not downtown  
_ **annettefantine** : what about the lyon street steps? they’re really pretty and they have a great view

A quick search reveals that the steps are a short walk from the house his family keeps, on the hill above Lafayette Park. In the quiet of his apartment he is warmed to his fingertips; here is a connection they have without even trying. _Tell her that_ , says his mental Ingrid, but up swells the anxiety and he only types:

 **swordguy220** : _sounds good  
_ **annettefantine** : yaaaay i’m excited! see you there finally~  
 **annettefantine** : waitwait how will i know it’s you?? you know what i look like but i’ve never seen you! _  
_ **swordguy220** : _i could bring my guitar?  
_ **annettefantine** : ohh great idea! very distinctive!  
 **annettefantine** : i’ll be on the lookout for the mysterious man with a guitar~  
 _annettefantine has signed out of chat._

Felix drops his phone into the couch cushions and scrubs his hands over his face. _You fucking coward_ , he thinks viciously, and says it aloud too, for good measure.

Annette is so bright, and cheerful, and optimistic, and everything that Felix isn’t. She shines in every situation, while he only ever drags down. He knows he’s a mood-killer, he doesn’t know how to be otherwise. And doesn’t Annette deserve better than that, doesn’t she deserve to have the best person the world has to offer—someone who can take care of her when she’s upset, bring her gently back to earth when she flies too far?

She does. He knows she does, and he knows that person isn’t him. She would never want whatever pathetic offering he can give her. And once she finds out that it’s been him all along, her shitty bad-tempered producer masquerading as her longtime friend and collaborator—

She’s going to hate him. She’ll be furious and completely justified, and she’ll probably yell at him—or worse, look at him with that horrible defeated expression that flashed across her face during their argument, right before she left.

And then he’ll never see her again. The love of his life, leaving because of his inability to act.

 _Fuck,_ she’s the love of his life, isn’t she. He loves her. He slid right into it without even realizing.

* * *

Slow days at the bakery mean extra garnishes for the pastries, and Annette and Lysithea are really outdoing themselves today. Annette says so, placing another tiny edible flower atop a cupcake, and Lysithea smirks at her sideways.

“Just wait till you see your birthday cake,” she says with a flourish of the icing bag. “It’s going to blow your mind.” For the occasion of Annette’s birthday, Lysithea had claimed the evening for dinner, with the promise of her secret recipe spice cake for dessert. Her creations were as delicious as they were beautiful; her piping skills were _legendary_.

From the front, the bells over the door chime to signal a new arrival. Annette pays it no mind, prodding at a golden pansy to make it sit prettier, until Raphael calls out, “Special delivery!”

“This better be good,” grumbles Lysithea as she dusts her hands on her apron.

They crowd into the doorway leading to the front, where Raphael is setting down an extravagant bouquet of flowers, spilling from an elegant glass vase. The blooms are enormous, bursting with the colors of a brilliant sunset, fuchsia and gold and burnt-orange. Not what you’d expect from a spring bouquet, but they are—

“My favorites,” Annette sighs, reaching out to touch a dusty yellow rose with a fingertip as Lysithea _ooh’s_ and _aah’s_. “Oh, these are amazing. Who are they for?”

Raph shrugs. “Dunno, the guy just handed them over and left real quick. You could check the card…” He digs around for the card nestled in the greenery and squints at it. “Hey, they’re for you!”

“What,” gasps Annette.

“ _What_ ,” shouts Lysithea, wheeling on her.

“Someone’s got a _secret admirer_ ,” booms Raphael, loud enough to echo around the shop, and Annette cringes, hands flying to her suddenly-burning cheeks.

“ _Stoooop_ ,” she wails. Raphael’s laughter is even louder than his speaking voice.

“These are _so_ nice,” says Lysithea, her eyes enormous. Her tone is reverent as she rotates the vase slowly, offering Annette the best angles. “Look at these peonies, they’re _huge_. And did you see the logo? This place is all over Instagram, it’s _so_ bougie. These must have cost a fortune.”

The bells chime again and Annette whips around—her secret admirer, revealing themselves? But no, it’s only Hilda with a stack of custom cake orders.

“Sugar daddy,” she singsongs as she sails past them, headed for the back. Annette wishes that the earth would swallow her whole.

“But I don’t know who they’re from,” she moans into her hands.

“It has to be someone special,” muses Lysithea. “They know your birthday and your favorite colors, _and_ they made sure the flowers arrived during your shift.” She ticks each fact on her fingers.

Annette racks her brain—who could have sent them? She hadn’t made many birthday plans, with her schedule being so hectic. Mercie had made her breakfast this morning and sang a little made-up birthday song that had nearly made Annette cry; she and Lysithea were going to their favorite Thai place after work. Hilda and Raphael had put up balloons in the break room, along with a handwritten banner that read _HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANNETTE! NO SWEETS ALLOWED_.

That exhausted the list of birthday celebrations, and she didn’t make a point of sharing her birthday on social media. There was no one else who would make such an effort.

Then a memory surfaces so sudden and clear that she almost chokes on it: Felix, squinting at her phone, planning each of their meetings around her work schedule.

“Oh,” she says aloud, clutching at Lysithea’s arm. “ _Ohhh_.”

“Who is it! I _know_ you know!” Lysithea shakes her in a very un-Lysithea-like manner. Annette yelps as edible flowers tumble from the bowl onto the countertop.

“Watch it, those are almost out of season!” Hilda sticks her head into the doorway. “Raph, flour delivery’s here—your time to shine.”

“Sorry,” they chorus, and they each hurry back to their respective stations as the door chimes with the arrival of a customer.

As soon as Annette clocks out for her break, she hurries to the pantry, where she’s least likely to be overheard, and dials a number she _really_ never thought she’d call.

“What’s wrong,” says Felix, by way of greeting.

“Nothing! I just had a question.”

“What is it?”

“Was it you who sent the—”

“No.”

“—flowers?”

A long, telling silence. Annette can’t help the smile that spreads across her face, till it feels like she might burst.

“They’re beautiful,” she says.

“Hmph.”

“Thank you,” she says.

“Whatever.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to remember where I work. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to send them…”

“It wasn’t.”

She bites back a laugh. “But I thought you said it wasn’t you?”

Another pause. “...You’re teasing me,” he says, suspicious.

She presses the back of her hand against her mouth; her whole body is shaking with suppressed laughter. He just sounds _so_ embarrassed, she can imagine his entire face turning tomato-red. “Yes, Felix.”

“Hmph. Don’t do that… often.”

“Not often? What about rarely, or sometimes?”

“Annette,” he groans. “I’m in _public_.”

She does laugh at that. “Sorry! I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And, um. You don’t have to keep apologizing. If that’s what this was! If it wasn’t, then just forget about it.” She flaps her hands, forgetting he can’t see her.

“It’s not,” he says. “Not… completely.”

“Then what else was it for?”

“I just wanted to do something for you, okay?” he mumbles. “That’s all. Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Okay, no more questions! My break is almost over anyway.”

An affirmative sort of grunt. She expects him to hang up, but he… doesn’t. The line stays open. She imagines him breathing.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Bye,” she says.

“Sure,” he says, and the line goes dead.

* * *

The next time she visits the headquarters downtown, she finds Felix in a new room. Rather than a miscellaneous boardroom, or anything resembling a personal office, this room is smallish, even cozy, with a keyboard and tall windows. Quickly this becomes their preferred meeting place: Felix for the acoustics, Annette for the chairs of varying squashiness.

Their brainstorming sessions never end on time, somehow. Most often they end with Annette sprinting out the door in a flurry of apologies, late for whatever, or with Felix pestered by calls for meetings he can no longer ignore.

But today they have the rare privilege of no predetermined end time; both of their schedules are open for the afternoon. Annette shouldn’t be checking the time—shouldn’t have any reason for jitters at all!—but she can’t stop moving.

She picks up her phone to check the time. Puts it down again. Jiggles her leg around. Re-ties her ponytail. Picks up her phone again, unlocks it, stares at her apps, puts it facedown on the table.

“What are you doing,” says Felix.

“Nothing!”

“You’re acting weird.”

“No, _you’re_ acting weird.”

“I am not,” says Felix, and for a moment he looks so taken aback that she can’t help but laugh.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just—so excited.” Felix lifts a single eyebrow ( _ooh_ , she hates him for that ability) and waits. “I’m going to San Francisco next weekend.”

“Really? So am I.”

“What!” She sits bolt upright on the loveseat she’s draped over. “No way! So is—um, my friend. We’re going to meet up.” _Do you want to join_ , she almost asks, and mentally smacks herself. Of course he wouldn’t want to. Besides, she wouldn’t want him to show up and ruin her chances with— _no_ , make a poor impression on her friend.

“Hmph,” says Felix. He hasn’t looked up from the piano, where he’s picking out a melody for their latest project. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, he’s just… you know, a _friend_.”

“A boyfriend?”

“No!”

“Then why are you acting so weird about it,” he mutters, reaching up to scribble something illegible onto his notes.

“I am _not_ acting weird—hey, we had this argument already!”

He’s smiling down at the keys—at some clever musical thing he’s figured out, probably. “We did.”

Annette squints at him. “Felix… are you _teasing_ me?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth falls open, like she hadn’t been expecting it. “Hey, that’s my job!”

“Thought I could give you a break from it.”

“You—you’re so—” Her face is turning five shades of red, she can just _feel_ it. Why is she getting so flustered? Cool and collected, that’s Annette, usually.

Well, maybe not always. Felix does have a way of riling her up, regardless of whatever the base emotion is. Why is she even thinking about this?

Felix pauses, pen still over paper. “I’m so…what?”

“Never mind! I’m not falling for that again.”

“Whatever you want.” His mouth is twisted up in that lopsided smirk he gets sometimes. It’s _not_ cute, not at all.

What has gotten into her today?

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she says, just to drive the point home.

“Okay, fine.” He rolls his eyes elaborately. “But it is a date?”

_“Felix!”_

He’s laughing at her outright now. So rude! “Who is this guy, anyway? What if he’s planning to kidnap you?”

“He is not! We’ve been friends for years now.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Um…” She pulls at a bit of her hair. “We text almost every day.”

“But?”

“He’s an online friend,” she blurts, and waits for judgment to descend from on high. But Felix, oddly, seems unfazed.

“What’s his handle?”

“Don’t look him up!”

He turns to give her a sideways glance, amused. “Why not? Are you embarrassed?”

“No! It’s just… ooh, don’t laugh.” She buries her face in her hands. “It’s… swordguy220.”

He tilts his head to one side. “Why would I laugh at that?”

“It’s—embarrassing! You know, like the email you made in middle school before you made a professional one with just your name.”

“I guess so,” he mumbles.

“I always wondered what the 220 stood for.”

“220… parking tickets?”

Annette mimes swatting him on the head. “The number of freckles on his face!”

“The number of cats he owns.”

“His birthday,” she suggests, then laughs. “No way! That’s too simple, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah… of course not.” Felix coughs and shuffles some papers around. “What if he’s ugly?”

“I’m sure he’s not! He has nice hands.”

Felix stares. She returns the stare blankly until a second later it hits her— _yes she really said that out loud_.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he says. She sends up a silent prayer to every deity she can think of, thanking them for Felix’s single-mindedness.

“It’s fine! I mean, it’s not like I’m going to—” She cuts herself off. What was she going to say? _Kiss him?_

“Going to what?”

“Never mind! Anyway, it doesn’t matter what he looks like.” She lifts her chin. “He’s a great friend, and looks won’t change that.”

“But what if he’s not?”

“What?”

“You think he’s your friend, but he’s hidden so much from you. What if your expectation of him doesn’t match the reality? What if you meet, after all this time, and you’re disappointed?”

Annette watches him for a long moment, the way he’s curled his hands into fists. What are they talking about? “Felix...”

“I just want to know,” he says, “what you would do, if he was disappointing.”

“He won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we’re friends. We’ve helped and confided in each other so many times—I just don’t believe that someone with such a kind heart could let me down in such a superficial way.”

Felix goes quiet. Just when she thinks he might have run out of things to say, he says, “You’re so generous, with your kindness.”

Distantly a bell rings dully—where has she heard that before? Like so many other scattered thoughts it dances just out of reach. “Well. It’s not so hard, if you just keep working at it.”

“How do you—” He stops abruptly, as if he’s lost his breath, before continuing— “get better at it. When you’re bad at it.”

“By asking for help.” She smiles. For all that Felix’s discerning gaze can pick out, he can’t seem to find a mirror. “What you’re doing is perfect.”

The piano goes silent. Annette looks up and Felix is turned almost completely sideways on the piano bench, facing away. It’s fairly obvious that he’s not great with eye contact—at first she’d assumed he wouldn’t deign to look at her directly, though now she knows otherwise—but he seems even more tense than usual.

“Felix, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He does not turn to face her.

Annette sits up fully from the loveseat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

Well, now he’s just acting weird (again!). “About what?”

“This guy had better be the best person you’ve ever met,” he says. He’s still looking down at his hands on the keys, his profile thrown into relief by the afternoon sunlight. When Annette parts her lips to draw breath, she can feel her heartbeat in her fingers. “Someone that’s good enough—that deserves you.”

“Felix…”

“You deserve the best.” She opens her mouth to argue, but— “Don’t argue, it’s true. I don’t know what this person is like, or what you’re expecting of them, but I just—I hope you’re not disappointed.” And he stands up and walks out of the room.

Annette stares after him, stunned. Even if she could go after him—if her body was capable of coordinated movement right now—what would she even say? She has the feeling that Felix has revealed a massively vulnerable part of himself, but no idea why or how. Maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t go after him; he seems in such a fragile state that he might—snap or something, she doesn’t know. She can’t guess, not right now in this delicate almost-mood.

After a long minute she gathers up the papers. Stacks them into a neat pile with the edges lined up. She clips it all together, sticks a note with today’s date on the top, gives it to the secretary by the elevator. She goes back to her car and drives all the way home and when she arrives she turns off the car and sits staring at the dash for a long time, until the sun begins to set and the charms on her keys stop swinging.

* * *

[14:35] **Annette Dominic:** _Leaving my friend’s apt now! See you soon!_  
[14:36] **Annette Dominic:** _Thanks again for agreeing to come with me. It makes me feel better knowing I’m with someone else  
_ [14:37] **Felix Fraldarius:** dw about it  
[14:37] **Felix Fraldarius:** your safety is important  
[14:39] **Annette Dominic:** _You’re such a worrywart Felix! I’m sure it’ll be fine_

Felix watches his breath trail from his mouth in a cloud. It’s unseasonably cold, even for San Francisco, and it doesn’t help that his hands want to shake. There’s condensation beading on the guitar case already. He regrets his lack of gloves.

His phone buzzes again with a notification from a different app.

 **annettefantine:** _omw!! should be right on time  
_ **swordguy220:** no rush  
 **swordguy220:** did you bring a jacket? freezing today  
 **annettefantine:** _aw you’re sweet  
_ **annettefantine:** _yes i did, no worries!_

What is he doing—he sounds like his aunties, nagging him to dry his hair before he goes to sleep.

[14:40] **Annette Dominic:** _You said it starts on Broadway right?_  
[14:40] **Felix Fraldarius:** yeah  
[14:42] _Annette Dominic liked the message “yeah”_

He shoves his hands into his pockets as if they aren’t already going numb. It’s mid-afternoon and this San Francisco June is shitty as always, gloomy and ten degrees too cold to be muggy. When he got out of bed this morning—an hour before his alarm, too jittery to stay asleep—the clouds pressed down on his lungs.

The guitar case looks lonely, sitting propped up against the low stone railing alone. He lays it carefully on its side and places the flowers on top, but it looks like someone fucking died or something, so he immediately puts it back.

He’s been lugging these flowers around for the better part of the day, earning himself an equal amount of approving and sympathetic side-eyes from aunties at the park. He glares at them—shit, they’re already turning brown at the edges. Did flowers always wilt this fast? He shouldn’t have bought them so early in the morning, but he was afraid that the best ones might be gone by lunchtime, and he had to find the best flowers for Annette. Obviously.

 _What if she hates flowers_ , the worst part of his brain hisses. He shoves it away. Stupid to think that, he already got her flowers once before and she’d said she loved them.

Shit, he’s gotten her flowers before. What if she’s disappointed by the repeat gift?

Just as he really starts to work himself into a panic, his phone buzzes again.

 **annettefantine:** _here~  
_ **annettefantine:** _uh oh. are you at the top or bottom of the stairs?_

As if he weren’t nauseous enough already.

 **swordguy220:** i’m in the middle? there’s like a garden area between broadway and vallejo _  
_ **annettefantine:** _ohh ok i think i see it!! cominggg_

Another ping, not a moment later:

[14:56] **Annette Dominic:** _Are you here yet?  
_ [14:56] **Felix Fraldarius:** yeah  
[14:57] **Annette Dominic:** _I’m at the top of the stairs but I don’t see you :( Should I wait for you?_  
[14:57] **Felix Fraldarius:** no you don’t have to  
[14:57] **Felix Fraldarius:** go meet your friend. you don’t need me  
[14:58] **Annette Dominic:** _??? Ok if you insist haha_

It’ll take her, what, thirty seconds to descend the steps?

The flowers are way too much. He needs to get rid of them before she arrives. Can he throw them into the shrubbery without anyone noticing?

But just then:

Tentative footsteps behind him, slowing, stopping a few feet away. A polite distance tokeep from a stranger.

“Hi,” says Annette.

His pulse pounds in every corner of his body. On the broad stone ledge of the terrace his fingers are white from gripping the railing. _Turn around, you coward._

“I’m looking for my friend,” she says. She sounds nervous. “Is… is it you?”

The afternoon sun has burned away the morning’s blanket of fog, but the air is still knife-cold, burning his throat as he inhales. By degrees he turns to face her; never has he been so aware of every part of himself, each of his limbs moving in sync.

“Yeah,” he says. His voice barely scrapes out of his throat.

Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, her lips tinted with some color. She’s even wearing shoes with a heel—she’s gotten her hopes up. Expecting someone wonderful, someone worth trying to impress.

“Felix?” She falls back a step. _Come back,_ he wants to say. “Why were you waiting down here? I thought we were going to meet at…”

He watches her realize.

“Oh,” she says. Her eyes are so blue. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah,” he says again, because that’s all he’s capable of.

“You’re… the whole time? It was you, all along?”

He nods. His throat is too dry to swallow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to,” he says, “so badly.”

Belatedly he remembers the flowers, and he shoves the bouquet towards her, blooms-forward. She jumps a little. He hates himself.

“Felix…”

“They’re for you. Uh. Here.”

She reaches out so slowly to take them. Is she avoiding his hands, or is he imagining it?

“You kept it a secret,” she says, “all this time.” She touches one of the flowers with a fingertip. His skin aches.

“I didn’t mean to. I never meant to lie to you,” he says in a rush. “I just—you hated me so much, I was selfish, I didn’t want you to find out and never speak to me again—”

“What?” She draws upright in surprise. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you do now, don’t you,” he says. He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. “I’ve lied to you for months and let you think I was some—imaginary person who was better than me, who didn’t make you cry—”

“Felix, I didn’t think—”

“But _I_ did,” he says, desperate, “and so I… it’s fine if you hate me, and never want to speak to me again. You can forget I ever existed. I won’t bother you.” He lets his head drop forward, spent. This is more emotional expression than he’s ever done in his entire life, probably, and it exhausts him, priming his hands to shake. “You don’t have to say anything. I just had to tell you… I’ve wanted you for so long.” He falls back a step. He can’t stand so close to her knowing he has to walk away. “You can keep the flowers. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

A hand on his wrist, staying him.

He stops breathing. She has never touched him before.

Her hands are so small.

“I’m definitely keeping the flowers,” says Annette.

He dares to look at her, finally, and she’s—smiling? Smiling like the break of dawn, and holding his hand, and she draws closer and he barely has time to take half a stuttering breath before her lips are on his, warm and softer than he’d ever hoped. He can feel the curve of her smile against his mouth and he can’t stop shaking, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. In his whole short pathetic life he has never wanted anything more than he wants her, and now that she’s here he is at a complete loss—awash in longing fulfilled.

“Is this okay?” she whispers against him, drawing back a handsbreadth.

 _Yes yes yes of course yes_ , he wants to say, but he cannot remember how to form words. Gentle pressure on his face—her fingertip, sweeping under his eyes and across his cheekbone.

“Shit,” he mutters, and drops his forehead to her shoulder. For fuck’s sake—he’s crying and he didn’t even realize. This is why he doesn’t let emotions overwhelm him in such a way: his body’s instinctive reaction is to produce tears and he hates it. He hates crying and he hates people seeing him cry, and now here he is with the woman who is _the love of his life_ and he’s sniffling like a child. “I’m sorry,” he says into the soft fabric of her sweater. She smells like clean soap and flowers. “I don’t—I can’t—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Her free hand, the one not holding the flowers, comes up to rest at the nape of his neck, drawing him in. Her fingers are so small, her touch feather-light. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry.”

“Why don’t you hate me,” he gasps, and his arms move as if of their own accord, coming up to curl around her back, clinging to her. “You have every reason to—I thought I’d never see you again—”

“I could never hate you, Felix.” Her lips at his temple, her breath on his ear.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it. I’m not lying to you.” She tugs gently on the hair at the back of his head—a shiver runs down his entire body, involuntary, before he pulls back enough to see her face. “You’ve changed my life. All these years you’ve supported me, and been so encouraging and kind—I never would’ve worked up the guts to submit that demo if it weren’t for you. I mean, not that other people weren’t nice about it, but you’re, you know…” She does a little one-shoulder shrug. One fiery curl bounces up from her shoulder. A part of him crumbles to ash. “You know music too. And I trusted your judgment. I mean, yeah, you were super grumpy when we first met in person, but I was a little harsh, too. But when you look at everything else we’ve had together...”

She puffs up with determination. It is maybe, objectively, the cutest thing Felix has ever seen. “I trust you, and I trust that whatever you did… you were really trying your best. You were trying to be as kind as you could be, given the situation.”

She rests her hand against his face and he turns into her palm, a leaf towards the sun. “I don’t hate you, and I don’t want to never see you again.” She tucks her chin down, clearing her throat. “I would definitely like to see you again. I think we could have, um, a really good thing. Whatever you want to call it... It would be good.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We could have a great thing.”

“So we agree.”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” she says.

“Cool,” he echoes.

They stare at each other. Gradually, by increments, spots of pink appear on her cheeks.

“Is there something on my face!”

“No,” he murmurs, distracted by the curve of her lips.

“Then why are you just—staring like that!”

“You’re beautiful.”

Clearly she was expecting some flippant response. Her lips part in surprise, and he cannot stop staring. A few minutes ago he’d thought—rather, hoped against hope—that if he could just kiss her once, that would be enough, he would never want for anything else in his life. But now that he knows the warmth of her breath on his skin, the soft plush of her lips—if he doesn’t kiss her again in the next second, he’s going to die from lack of exposure.

He leans in slowly, so as not to startle her, his gaze flicking up to gauge her response—and there are tears threatening to spill over from her eyes.

He panics. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing—”

“But you’re about to cry, please don’t—”

“How can you say that, you’re already crying!”

“Are you upset—is it your allergies—”

“It’s because I’m _happy_ , Felix.” She rolls her eyes, but she smiles ear to ear. Her nose crinkles when she smiles like this. It hits him in the chest like a physical blow.

“Ah. That’s… good.”

“It is!” Hell, she’s so cute.

“Do you know,” he says, unable to keep his mouth shut, “when it started?”

Annette tilts her head to one side. “When what started?”

“I don’t even remember the day.” He can’t stop to explain himself, he’ll lose his breath too easily. “I just remember, one day we were working on something, and your hair was coming undone. And when I told you, you got embarrassed.” She lights up with recognition.

“Hey, you told me not to bother with it!”

“Because you were—you’re so beautiful. But I couldn’t say that, and I looked at you and I knew I was gone.”

Her mouth falls open into a perfect _O_. “Felix!”

“What? It’s the truth.”

“You can’t just—say things like that! It’s so embarrassing.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.” She tucks her head into his shoulder to hide her face. It is objectively the cutest thing he’s ever experienced.

His hands drift up to settle on her back, her sweater soft under his fingers, to hold her there carefully. It would be nice, he thinks, if she stayed here for a while, in his arms.

But that’s way too much to admit out loud—on top of all the other horrible soul-baring things he’s just admitted to her—so instead he says, “Can I show you the city?”

Annette pops her head back up and beams at him, his own personal sun. “I would love that,” she says.

And she takes his hand in her own, twining their fingers together, and leads him back up the steps to the street above, into the yawning afternoon light.

**Author's Note:**

> AT LAST IT IS FINISHED. big huge gigantic thanks to natsuki, for letting me take her idea of a netteflix you've got mail AU and sprint directly over the edge of a cliff, and to [meg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/pseuds/strikinglight), for cheerleading and listening to me whine about this for literally two months nonstop. this fic absolutely would not exist without either of them. 
> 
> here are some photos of the lyon street steps in san francisco, where annette and felix meet in the final scene ([1](https://www.langan.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/Lyon-Street-Stairs_2-1.jpg) [2](https://www.langan.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/Lyon-Street-Stairs-1.jpg) [3](https://photorator.com/photos/images/lyon-street-steps-san-francisco--66869.jpg)). when i visited i thought it was such a romantic place--perfect for a romcom. 
> 
> thanks for reading~


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